[it’s real when they say it]

Alone
amid marble steps
You shiver in the living room
and assume the irreversible:

CHILDHOOD ISN’T SOMETHING YOU CAN HAVE.

although

YOU CAN LOSE IT

CHILDHOOD IS SOMETHING ELSE.

a type of speech

MINUTIAE

There are the pigeons, fluttering. End of the minute. Silence. Hundreds of pigeons fly at me, shit on you.

You picked out mother’s dress. It was black.

From deep in the chasms, hear my voice!

It couldn’t be found because he took it with him.

You pay them in memory, unstable currency of each and every day.

Facing a drab mirror,
rub your eyes
like the squares of an empty market.

everyone likes you
because your parents are dead.

Nothing is enough for the royalty of a ghost.

A subtle glimmer in the jasmine. A word,
its texture.

It will only be real and intense when it detaches from the stalk and its essence dries.

CHILDHOOD ISN’T SOMETHING YOU CAN HAVE.

although

YOU CAN LOSE IT

You picked out mother’s dress. It was black.

[it’s real when they say it]

There are the pigeons, fluttering. End of the minute. Silence. Hundreds of pigeons fly at me, shit on you.

Alone
amid marble steps
You shiver in the living room
and assume the irreversible:

From deep in the chasms, hear my voice!

Facing a drab mirror,
rub your eyes
like the squares of an empty market.

everyone likes you
because your parents are dead.

CHILDHOOD IS SOMETHING ELSE.

a type of speech

MINUTIAE

It couldn’t be found because he took it with him.

You pay them in memory, unstable currency of each and every day.

Nothing is enough for the royalty of a ghost.

A subtle glimmer in the jasmine. A word,
its texture.

an underground city
a walled-in heart
a bronze-domed stage

It will only be real and intense when it detaches from the stalk and its essence dries.

But they recognize you,
The violin of every song,
You hear golden ovations from the dressing room.

Simple: naïve / milkweed / that which only seeks to tend its own garden / look at him all cool as a cucumber, and what have you gotten yourself into, little creature? ​

You weren´t crying about mother.
Were crying because can't get your shadow to stick on.
Anyway, you weren´t crying.
(Peter Pan, Act 1)

Recently you saw a wild plant growing on her grave.

One moment of silence.

it’s not a game. It’s the last time he’ll let us in late.

CHILDHOOD ISN’T SOMETHING YOU CAN HAVE.

although

YOU CAN LOSE IT

You picked out mother’s dress. It was black.

From deep in the chasms, hear my voice!

[it’s real when they say it]

There are the pigeons, fluttering. End of the minute. Silence. Hundreds of pigeons fly at me, shit on you.

Facing a drab mirror,
rub your eyes
like the squares of an empty market.

everyone likes you
because your parents are dead.

It couldn’t be found because he took it with him.

an underground city
a walled-in heart
a bronze-domed stage

But they recognize you,
The violin of every song,
You hear golden ovations from the dressing room.

You weren´t crying about mother.
Were crying because can't get your shadow to stick on.
Anyway, you weren´t crying.
(Peter Pan, Act 1)

Alone
amid marble steps
You shiver in the living room
and assume the irreversible:

Nothing is enough for the royalty of a ghost.

A subtle glimmer in the jasmine. A word,
its texture.

It will only be real and intense when it detaches from the stalk and its essence dries.

it’s not a game. It’s the last time he’ll let us in late.

CHILDHOOD IS SOMETHING ELSE.

a type of speech

MINUTIAE

Simple: naïve / milkweed / that which only seeks to tend its own garden / look at him all cool as a cucumber, and what have you gotten yourself into, little creature? ​

Recently you saw a wild plant growing on her grave.

One moment of silence.

You picked out mother’s dress. It was black.

CHILDHOOD ISN’T SOMETHING YOU CAN HAVE.

although

YOU CAN LOSE IT

From deep in the chasms, hear my voice!

[it’s real when they say it]

There are the pigeons, fluttering. End of the minute. Silence. Hundreds of pigeons fly at me, shit on you.

It couldn’t be found because he took it with him.

Facing a drab mirror,
rub your eyes
like the squares of an empty market.

Nothing is enough for the royalty of a ghost.

A subtle glimmer in the jasmine. A word,
its texture.

Alone
amid marble steps
You shiver in the living room
and assume the irreversible:

You picked out mother’s dress. It was black.

CHILDHOOD ISN’T SOMETHING YOU CAN HAVE.

although

YOU CAN LOSE IT

From deep in the chasms, hear my voice!

[it’s real when they say it]

There are the pigeons, fluttering. End of the minute. Silence. Hundreds of pigeons fly at me, shit on you.

Facing a drab mirror,
rub your eyes
like the squares of an empty market.

everyone likes you
because your parents are dead.

Alone
amid marble steps
You shiver in the living room
and assume the irreversible:

an underground city
a walled-in heart
a bronze-domed stage

CHILDHOOD IS SOMETHING ELSE.

a type of speech

MINUTIAE

It couldn’t be found because he took it with him.

But they recognize you,
The violin of every song,
You hear golden ovations from the dressing room.

CHILDHOOD ISN’T SOMETHING YOU CAN HAVE.

although

YOU CAN LOSE IT

[it’s real when they say it]

Alone
amid marble steps
You shiver in the living room
and assume the irreversible:

There are the pigeons, fluttering. End of the minute. Silence. Hundreds of pigeons fly at me, shit on you.

It couldn’t be found because he took it with him.

You picked out mother’s dress. It was black.

From deep in the chasms, hear my voice!

Facing a drab mirror,
rub your eyes
like the squares of an empty market.

Nothing is enough for the royalty of a ghost.

everyone likes you
because your parents are dead.

an underground city
a walled-in heart
a bronze-domed stage

But they recognize you,
The violin of every song,
You hear golden ovations from the dressing room.

A subtle glimmer in the jasmine. A word,
its texture.

Sara Camhaji

visualize the voice of thought.
think the image of the voice.
provoke destiny. play.
from chance, from the sigh.
understand the force that links
the image to the name.
the name is an image.
the image is a verb.
play. nothing is chance.
destiny is a game.
everything is destiny.

This site is part of the project "DON´T TAKE PHOTOS OF THE LANDSCAPE; TAKE PORTRAITS WITH THE VIEW OF THE BACKGROUND IF YOU LIKE", whose creative object revolves around the phenomenon of memory and its conceptual visualization. Thus, Sara explores the different languages on which the mind reloads its truth and the way it constructs our inner world.
About
SARA CAMHAJI (Mexico City, 1986) is a writer, teacher, and mother. Her work is a natural response to her lived experience and the emotional dimensions she has inhabited. She has told and written stories for her entire life. Poetry—the axis of her exploration—has prompted her to develop new discursive forms in close contact with inner human reality; wrenching, they open themselves to embodiment and appropriation. She has a master’s in creative writing, two children, and two published works: Maleza (Alboroto Ediciones, 2022) and this one. A selection of her poems appeared in the UNAM’s Periódico de Poesía. She received a grant from Asylum Arts in 2017 and was awarded the Peleh Fund arts residency in Berkeley, California, for 2023. Narrated poetry or poetic narrative? Sara writes in the voice of an archive with a voice of its own, like a thinking time machine, or from the dark sincerity of she-who-didn’t-know-she-had-to-live.
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